


Cherry Garcia

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Femininity, M/M, Reconciliation, Soft stiles, extended seperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: Stiles left a long time ago, but said he would send for Peter when the time was right. Peter waited for the one he loves, but the man he finds five years later is new - whole and happy. Peter will love Stiles in any form or flavor, forever. Even Cherry Garcia.





	Cherry Garcia

For half a second, Peter thinks he’s in the wrong apartment. The slinky curtains that catch on his shoes as he slides in the window are translucent pink, studded with beads, and do nothing to block the overpowering scent of cherry blossoms.  But this is the address Stiles sent him, so he settles against the wall – close enough to the window to make a hasty exit if need be – and waits. It isn’t long before the door lock rattles and a slim figure laden with grocery bags stumbles through the door.

The phone Stiles is chattering into between his cheek and shoulder, keeps slipping against the soft cashmere of his cardigan. So he quickly sets the bags down and holds it to his ear again while locking the door.

If not for the voice and the unmistakable scar on his neck – and his wolf crooning mine, mine, mine – Peter would have already been out the window for how different Stiles looks. His shoulders and legs show the muscle he’s gained, and his skin is glowing. His hair, thick and shiny, is swept back from his forehead with a pair of sunglasses.

“Ugh, I left the wax warmers on again. Yeah, I know, I’m going to burn the building down. Can I call you back later? I need to get these groceries put away, I’m likely to leave ice cream out on the counter – “

Peter can’t understand what the person on the other end of the line is saying, but it doesn’t matter. He just wants to hear Stiles’ voice.

“Okay, talk to you later. Bye bye!”

Stiles disconnects the call and sets the phone on the kitchen island, dragging the bags closer to the fridge. The open floorplan of the apartment – there are no walls between the kitchen, nook, and living room he is standing in – serves to make the space seem larger, but Peter isn’t fooled. It is tiny, made for a single person and little else. The lack of support columns ruins the illusion of spaciousness for an architect like Peter.

“Hello, Stiles.”

Peter barely manages a step away from the wall before he is freezing in place, hands coming up plaintively. Stiles had turned and pulled a gun with a speed that indicated extensive training since the last time they were together.

“Oh holy shit, Peter, I could have shot you!” He lowers the gun – a hefty, black Beretta – and tucks it back into the nearly invisible holster under his arm. The baggy pink cashmere hides it well, swallows it up so the discordant color is hidden.

“It’s good to see you too. You look well.”

“You haven’t aged a day. Turn off that wax melter and continue to make yourself at home, I need to put away groceries.”

This really isn’t what Peter had been expecting. He had had plenty of time to fantasize on his three-day drive to Manhattan, but the gun, the pink, the comfortable familiarity – as if this wasn’t the first time they had seen each other in five years – would be awkward if he wasn’t so accustomed to just rolling with the punches.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’ hands are shaking slightly as he stuffs cherry garcia into the bottom-load freezer, overwrought with nerves. The hem of his cardigan slips forward as he bends over to show an array of knives strapped to the back of his belt.

“Why do you have so many weapons?”

“It’s Manhattan, Peter.”

“That really doesn’t answer my question. Indulge a poor west-coaster.”

“I work security for high end supernatural events. Plus, it’s Manhattan and I’m wearing pre-season Valentino. Wouldn’t you carry?”

“You have a point. Stiles –“  Peter can’t take it anymore. His breath must catch, because Stiles finally turns away from the freezer to really look at him.

Peter’s fingers twitch and reach out for a pale, freckled hand, and Stiles tentatively closes the gap, lacing their fingers together. The pads of his fingers are scarred, and his tidy manicure can’t hide that his knuckles are arthritic and stiff with scar tissue from countless fights.

The touch of his hand is wondrous, but Peter wants more. He steps slowly forward, rests his free hand against Stiles’ chest where he knows there is a bullet scar from one of the many nights he almost died.

Peter bypasses the temptation of shiny, red-glossed lips to press their cheeks and temples together; Stiles meeting him on tiptoes and clinging tightly to the front of his jacket.

He’s muttering Stiles’ name over and over, can’t bring himself to stop, and Stiles is trembling under his fingertips, tears warm against his skin. He smells so much better than he did in college, gentle perfume mixed with gentler soap and his underlying scent of pears and soft leather unmarred by the tang of dissatisfaction and discomfort that he carried throughout high school and college.

“Stiles, let me stay, please, don’t send me away again. I love you, Stiles, all of you, any part of you, you, you, you.”

“I can believe that now. I’m so sorry it took so long. I’m sorry I kept you away.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, Cherry Garcia is my least favorite ice cream flavor of all time, even worse than Pistachio, but it fit for the aesthetic I had in mind. Doesn't mean I don't still hate it.
> 
> This miiiiight get another chapter, but for now, it's standalone. Mostly just a piece to practice declarations.


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